poison ivy wearing muddy overalls n rubber gloves on the set of a gardening show w the hosts tied up n gagged behind her stroking a genetically modified carnivorous plant like a lapdog:
hello fume-spewers of gotham city. its your hostess with the most...the mostess...its me, poison ivy. sorry to interrupt your resource-guzzling evening's entertainment by taking over every channel of your worthless old-media network. oh wait. i'm not. at this very moment the bouquet of roses i sent to strangle the mayor will be
heavy static followed by sudden cut 2 the penguin, drinking straight vodka and crunching icecubes wearing a feather boa and a velvet dressing gown covered in grease-strains and reclining in the hosts chair on a talk show set, which is being visibly smashed by themed muscleboys in th background:
GOTHAM CITY YOU FUCKERS, YOU ABSOLUTE SWINE, HERES THE DEAL I WANT (crunch) A BILLION DOLLARS LEGAL TENDER TRANSFERRED TO MY PAYPAL AT email@example.com OR YOU CAN (slurp) SAY GOODBYE TO-
sudden cut back 2 poison ivy, furiously gesturing to the hypnotised crew to do whatever damnable technological things they do to unfuck the broadcast:
(high pitched screeching)
sudden cut to the penguin:
-YOUR PRECIOUS "SUN". I-
(hears phone ringing) OH WAIT UH HOLD ON A SECOND
(pullS a gold rotary telephone out of his purse) HWEH?
poison ivy, shreiking thru reciever:
fuck off oswald im doing a Bit!!
TO FUCK WITH YOUR BIT I BOUGHT OUT ALL THE NETWORKS FOR 1 HALF HOUR SLOT AND NOW I HAVE MINUS A BILLION DOLLARS AND I NEED A BILLION DOLLARS
these airwaves arent big enough for the both of us you horrendous little animal. i swear to piss i will
sudden cut to the riddler, sitting atop a giant rubix cube w the squares flashing neon at intervals wearing 2 pairs of 3D glasses and a coquettish mod ensemble w so many sequins on it that the studio lights reflecting off it cause at least 3 lens flares a second:
GREEEEEEEETINGS CITIZENS OF GOTHAM CITTTYYYYYY! i, the RIDDLER, have interrupted your intellectually unstimulating broadcast to bring you some entertainment you'll hopefully find a little more...challenging. a new game show....with a DEADLY TWIST. for you see
(hears his 2001 nokia beeping) uh...well, it seems we have our FIRST CALLER of the evening
...and our SECOND CALLER. um
(choking on an ice cube in pure rage)
woah now hey now hey there woah there just a second
-A BILLION DOLLARS
-A TRILLION DOLLARS-
sudden cut to harley quinn, sitting at home on the couch in front of her webcam wearing a sweaty sports bra and loony toons pajama pants and eating a hotdog:
whats up folks! just wanted to hang out
When you were a gymnast what was your favorite event? (I'm in a girls team and probably my favorite event is floor. Watching the boys teams, I thought it was cool to watch them on Rings or High bar) :) Have a rad day dude
My favorite event was either floor or high bar! I really really loved tumbling! Twisting was my forte!
A/N: I felt like it’d been a while since I’d written anything that focused on Yoongi, so I really wanted to write something~ I started this a few weeks ago and then got distracted by life and finishing up college for the semester, but I finally finished it so here I am~ Hopefully you all enjoy it lol
Clubs aren’t your thing—but you give them a chance, because
you don’t want to seem like the party pooper amongst your group of friends.
Despite their efforts to get you to show some skin, though, you still end up
walking into the club wearing a tank-top, skinny jeans, and a pair of laced up
high-tops. You weren’t here to be hit on—you didn’t want some creep trying to
slide his hand up your inner thigh. You were here to socialize, down some
drinks to get over your regret of coming, and then hopefully leave with the
first friend in your group who would call it a night.
So, you saddle up to the bar, waving at your friends as they
scuttle out onto the dance floor—all high heels and short skirts. Once they
disappear into the throng of grinding bodies, you spin on your stool, turning
to rest your elbows on the counter top—
…and the bartender is right in front of you. Skinny, but
well rounded—dark hair hanging slightly into his eyes, black button up fitted
to his torso perfectly. His face remains void of any emotion, but when he
catches your surprised stare and the slight part of your lips, he smirks.
“What can I start you with?” he asks, voice deeper than you
had expected, a bit rough, but still clearly heard over the music of the club.
You pause at the question, your mind blanking.
“I…I’ll take a rum and coke, unless you have something
better to give me,” you say, trying to scrape up your remaining shred of
composure. The male cocks an eyebrow, looking a little contemplative.
“You wanna get drunk? Or do you just wanna buzz so you can
still punch the guy that tries to steal your panties? I mean you gotta throw me
a bone here.”
“I don’t even fucking know, man,” you say honestly, leaning
back a little to motion at yourself. “Look at me. I mean—it’s not exactly like
easy access is written all over my jean-clad legs.”
The bartender hums, reaching down to snag a shot glass.
“I’ve been looking at you for a minute or two now and you’re surprising cute
despite the outfit,” he comments, reaching behind him to grab a bottle of Kahlua.
“Clearly you’re not here to let anyone finger you in the back alleyway,
though,” he continues, chuckling when he catches your blush and stunned look.
With skill, he snatches up a bottle of Grand Marnier and
Bailey’s too, layering the liquors in a shot glass with exact precision. When
he’s finished, he gently slides it towards you, meeting your questionable
“It’s good. Sweet liquor for a sweet girl. Take it—it’ll
help you loosen up a little.”
“Are bartenders usually this flirty?” you question him,
downing the shot in one go (because damn this dude is making you warm already).
“Only to those who perk our interest,” he responds, taking
the shot glass from you after you set down. You laugh, feeling somewhat
“Yeah? Should I consider myself lucky then?”
“Depends on your definition of lucky,” he chuckles, eyes
fliting to the side when another couple up the bar slurs for him. Smile
dropping from his lips, he quickly moves around, throwing some ice into a
glass—filling it a third full with rum and the remainder with coke.
“Suck on that till I get back,” he says briefly, sliding it
to you, and you watch him, brows lifted in surprise as he quickly goes to tend
on other patrons.
Taking the cool glass into your hand, you gently swirl the
contents before taking a long sip.
You’re not sure what that bartender is aiming for, playing
with your emotions like this, but…dammit, you really don’t mind.
Ten minutes later, dark and mysterious bartender is back in
front of you, elbow propped on the counter, interest sparking in his irises as
he listens to you ramble about all the things you don’t really like about
clubs. You hadn’t exactly meant to just…open up to him, but…you’re beginning to
think your tolerance is a bit lighter than you had assumed.
“I’m baffled you’re even here,” he muses, refilling your
glass. “It seems like you’d rather be at home, reading a book, or doing some
kind of other dorky, yet cute thing.”
“Right? I don’t
know, man—I wanted to not seem like the boring friend, but even when I’m here
I’m still hiding at the bar,” you say, sighing, and rest your cheek in the palm
of your hand. The bartender breathes a laugh, regarding you thoughtfully.
“You could always go.”
“Yeah, but…,” you begin, eyes flitting up to his, and his
stare has you feeling a bit weak. “You’re here.”
At that, that man pauses, any movement stopping as his eyes
fall from yours, lowering to regard the countertop. You watch him, cheeks hot,
regret sinking in your stomach. Luckily, after a few seconds—instead of walking
away or anything else that could potentially break your heart—he meets your
gaze again and opens his mouth to respond.
…however, just as he does, the same drunk couple form before
shouts for him at the other end of the bar and, sighing, the dark haired male
hurries away. You’re once again left staring after him, hands fidgeting against
your half-downed glass.
What the hell are you doing?
A little less than 20 minutes later—mister dark and
mysterious having somehow disappeared from the bar without you noticing, you
push your finished drink to the side and slide off your stool. You don’t want
to drink anymore—you really don’t want to be here—and now that the flirty, cute
bartender is gone, you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.
More than anything, you just want to tap out and go home,
but, before you can, one of your friends spots you near the edge of the dance
floor and hurries over. Grabbing your wrist, she tugs you into the mass of
people, and you can’t think to tell her that you’re really not in the mood for
dancing—especially considering that she has already dragged you into the middle
of the action.
So, reluctantly, trying to let any of your worries go (as
well as thoughts of the dark-haired bartender—who you may or may not have
fallen for), you begin dancing with your friends. At first, things go well—you
loosen up a bit, swing your hips, feel the music—but after a few minutes you
feel a pair of hands land on your hips. Glancing down—catching sight of pale,
long fingers—you realize that this isn’t one of your girlfriends.
“Sorry–,” you begin, taking a step forward, trying to let
the person know that you’re not about that tonight—but the fingers only
tighten, and you feel a males chest lightly press against your back.
“You said weren’t about dancing, yet when I stopped by the
bar on my way out for the night and noticed you were gone, I find you out here
on the dance floor,” the deep, familiar voice speaks, and fuck the heat you’d felt before is igniting your blood once more.
“My shift was over. I left to grab my stuff and planned to come
back to the bar to take you home with me, but—”
“I…what??” you say, flushing red, turning your head to try
and face him, but his fingers dig into your waist, holding your still, and his
lips press heatedly against your neck. That has you gasping, grinding back
against him as his teeth and tongue work at your throat.
“My name is Yoongi, by the way,” he says, sucking
particularly hard, and your knees nearly buckle.
“Yoongi,” you repeat, testing the name on your tongue. But
his name alone rolling from your lips has Yoongi growling quietly, one of his
hands sinking lower to grip your ass through your jeans. You bite your lip to
keep from moaning, lifting one of your hands backwards to tug his hair.
“If you were going to take me home then take me already,”
you breathe, grinding your ass back yet again, and before you can gather your
head you’re being pulled off the dance floor, Yoongi’s grip tight on you wrist.
The library used to be directly above the cafeteria. It was torn out, so now the cafeteria is an airy room two floors high. A new library was added on to the left of the school. So basically all this space up here was the library where most of the massacre took place.
i just want a small apartment with a light pastel aesthetic on a high floor in a rainy city with soft cotton white curtains and old comfy furniture and minimalistic shelves and mini cacti on my window sill